Better Left Buried
by JustAGirlWithAPen
Summary: Britain considers himself a pretty good journalist, and travels to Russia for an interview with the world's most mysterious country, for a piece about folklore. But has he bitten off more than he could chew? An almost flashfiction. R&R! M for death


**Author's Note: Just a bit piece I decided to write on a whim at a friend's house last night. I didn't edit a whole lot, and I know the plot sucks, but please, constructive criticism only. I don;t want to suck at writing forever. Hope you enjoy ;) Soundtrack (would be good to listen to while reading this :D ): Haunted by Evanescence**

Once upon a time, countries were people.

People are complex. People live and laugh and love. People have endless stories to tell, if only you ask the right questions, and sometimes a few skeletons in their closet. But there is only one man-one country- with endless bloody secrets, scary stories, and twisted conspiracy stories. That man is-

"That's bullcrap," Russia said as he smiled, setting down the glass in his hand with a click. Britain looked up with disdain.

"Must you always ruin my ideas, you big wanker? I'm here to do a preliminary interview, not to get writing tips for the oh-so-acclaimed literary genius that is _Ivan Braginiski_, you wonker," the tweed-clad blonde quipped. The Russian's expression didn't falter, but the lights in the hole-in-the-wall bar seemed to dim for a moment.

"Careful, you'll piss me off…." he chuckled. "And my curses are more powerful than your heathen witchcraft, Tinkerbell. Just ask Japan!" Britain snorted and flipped over the page he was working on before pausing for the first question.

"Alright, so what's the first thing you could tell me? I already have the one about the lazy girl and the corpse, and that other Russian twilight bit. What else does Russia have that would make America squirm?" Russia smiled creepily, his face darkening like it always did before he scared the living shit out of someone. Britain clutched his pen, holding back a self-satisfied smirk.

"This one would better be told outside, da? Let us go," the Russian nodded to the bartender, who acknowledged his departure without looking from the glasses he was polishing. Somehow the pen managed to insert itself into Britain's breast pocket, and although the door nearly caught him in the nose he managed to fall into step behind the rather large nation. Pulling the collar of his jacket closer, Britain thought he understood why Russia wore a scarf every time he stepped outside. Bullocks, this place was bloody hell frozen over.

The journalist nearly ran into his companion as the Russian abruptly stopped and turned on a dime. Britain found himself half-jogging to keep up, and the cold, wet ground was starting to permeate the soles of his feet. "So what's this story about? And where are we going? Slow up a little, will you?" The Siberian did no such thing.

Suddenly, they were there. Although Britain hadn't noticed it, they were in a dark and desolate part of town, in a graveyard no less. The ground was lumpy and the headstones were ancient and worn, marking the ground crookedly like old teeth. "Spooky, da? I knew you would be right at home here. You see, while your imaginary friends like inside your head and come out when you ask them to, mine…" he paused as the smaller nation's mouth dropped open. "Of course it's not a secret that you have imaginary friends. You're not alone. While yours live inside your head, _mine_ live here, all around me. Can you see them? Can you feel them?" The Englishman felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Russia smiled wider, taking a step towards the Englishman. "I can't see them, but I can feel them. They tell me they don't like your snooping around. Some secrets are better left buried in ice." Britain didn't consider himself to be a cowardly man, but he felt himself start to back away from the flat, mirror-like gaze of the Russian. The other man was too quick for him, though.

"Where do you think you're going?" Russia laughed. He caught Britain by the shoulders with an iron grip.

"I won' publish it, if you want," Britain gasped as he tried to slow the pumping of adrenaline through his veins. "But I asked if I could interview you, so I assumed that you wouldn't tell me anything you wouldn't want in the papers…" The grip tightened.

"I know you wouldn't, but it was so nice to get those things off my chest. My friends feel a lot better," the Siberian said, softening his voice.

"…But not so much better as to let me leave…"

"Oh, so you want to leave so soon?" Britain nodded, thinking of the things he so desperately wanted to see again. First, he would go visit America, and then Japan, and then maybe go piss off France to top it off. Unfortunately, the Russian wouldn't let his thoughts wander for long.

"Aaahhh, I see. Than we will grant your wish." The blonde breathed a sigh of relief, only to gasp in pain the next second. In that instant he noticed everything around him, the crisp powdering of snow on the gravestones, icicles on the sparse trees, and how the wind tossed Russia's scarf in an ominous way…

Then the Englishman realized _there was no wind. _The pale pink scarf traced the edge of his now-flushed jaw line, like the touch of a lover, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Britain felt a hypnotic sense of peace come over him, and he felt himself fascinated with the smooth, supple cloth that was suddenly all around his head and neck. It smelled of peppermint, earth, coal smoke and had a musky, salty undertone… defiantly blood. Britain felt no fear with this realization, as he could not see how such a perfect piece of fabric could be anything but pure. The thought continued until his body realized there was something wrong, that there was some pressure in his head that shouldn't be there.

Suddenly, he couldn't think anymore. He couldn't breathe! He tried to struggle, but the strong scarf had already squeezed around his neck like an anaconda. His fingers couldn't unwind the smooth fabric; they rolled off with little effect. Russia chuckled at the smaller man's feeble attempts to escape, but he never had a chance.

Russia's scarf unwound itself almost reluctantly from the limp once-nation. He felt it rest against his back once more, like a comforting hand. Finding a particularly muddy drift of snow, he thoroughly covered the body in snow, thinking back to the snowmen he'd made as a child. _This one has more right to the name than any I've made, _he thought dryly. Tucking the notebook that his guest had been carrying into his tarplike coat, the Russian walked away slowly, whistling the song that his invisible friends had taught him.


End file.
